


there is no shortage of blood

by anatomied



Series: send our love to its reward down in hell [4]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 15:12:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8805778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatomied/pseuds/anatomied
Summary: No heist ever goes completely according to plan. This one is no different. Ryan and Ray, though, as always, are going to do their jobs.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is the odd duck out of the three I've written so far, but I still enjoyed it greatly. Thank you for taking a look!

“Ah, hell,” Gavin proclaims into the radio.

That statement could mean half a dozen things, from _I dropped the bag and cash is going everywhere, all over the street, just a damn mess_ to _I am actually about to die, no, I’m serious_. It is the last thing Ryan wants to hear when he’s focused on the three cop cars lining up behind him, Ray, and Michael. Geoff and Jack have the cash in a cargobob, tracking its way slowly towards a rendezvous point on the other side of Mount Chiliad. But right now, it’s everyone else’s job to keep the heat off of them.

Well - it’s actually Gavin’s job to get the other half of the cash to the meeting point, because he’s awkward and gangly enough where a cop might not realize he’s part of the Fake AH Crew until it's too late. So even if something happened to the cargobob, there’d still be some spoils out of it.

Therefore Gavin’s statement might be a bad sign.

“Gavin?” Michael’s got one hand pressed to his ear as he aims a submachine gun one handed out the window. Bullets spray along storefronts, shattering glass and setting off more alarms. His hand jerks upwards with the recoil, a streetlight exploding in a bright flash. “What’s up, buddy?” Ryan keeps his aim securely out the passenger window, popping a cop car’s front tire. The car swerves wildly and bumps its friend next to it hard enough where both of them nearly spiral out onto the sidewalk.

But it’s not quite enough to send them both out of commission.

“Ray,” Ryan says, his tone tinged with warning. Above, there’s a helicopter gaining on them, spotlight bright enough to blind him. “Helicopter.”

“Fuck,” Ray hisses. He spins the wheel hard to the left, sending them careening down a side street. Michael’s shoulder slams hard into the side of the car.

The first half of the problem: they’re going to need something stronger than Michael or Ryan’s easily accessible firepower to do something about the helicopter. The second half: the only other easily available weapon in the car is Ray’s sniper rifle, disassembled and packed away in a case that only he can open, because they were _supposed_ to slip away unnoticed before anyone even found out the money was gone. Alas - their crew is good at many things, but quiet is none of them.

God bless Jack’s hopeful heart, though. The core of the heist was smart enough to even impress Ryan.

“Ray,” Ryan repeats. The helicopter manages to fit between two buildings. It’s barely a fit, but the pilot must be new and ambitious. There’s a cop yelling down at them through the loudspeaker: _pull over, do not try to run_ -

“Shut the _fuck up_ , oh my _God_ ,” Ray shouts out the window. A bullet pings off the concrete a foot away from Ray’s head, and Ryan grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him back into the car. Michael’s saying something to Gavin, and with a nod between them both Ryan and Ray yank out their earpieces. Now is not the time. Ryan tosses his into the glovebox. Ray just throws his over his shoulder where it probably lands in Michael’s lap. They need to focus. Gavin comes after they’re ensured that some hapless trigger-happy fuck with a heavy machinegun doesn’t just fucking destroy them all.

Ryan sees Ray’s face close off in an instant. “Okay. I need to drive. So.” Ray’s voice is very, very calm. There is almost no emotion in it - and with them, that means Ray’s making sure to hide any emotion from Michael. It wouldn’t do to reveal their cards like this. “I trust you, Ryan.” It sounds like a statement of fact, but it’s really a request. _I trust you, so don’t fuck me over_.

Even now. Even after the balcony, and everything that came after.

Ryan would expect no less.

They turn right out of the side alley. If they’re lucky, and if they’ve timed it right, they’ll swing around right in front of the two cop cars that were chasing them before.

Ray presses down on the accelerator and leans a little closer to Ryan. “Three-six-four.” His voice is soft enough where Michael won’t be able to hear him over the chaos.

Three digits. It’s the numbers to unlock Ray’s rifle case. Which means a lot. For other people, it would be the equivalent of a key to their home. And Ryan, despite seeing the carnage and chaos about to unfold around them, feels his heart in his throat for a moment. Ray doesn’t just trust him - Ray _trusts_ him. Ryan’s struggling to say something for a few moments. Ray punches him hard in the shoulder.

“Fucking _do something_ , what the hell, Ryan -”

“Michael.” Ryan cuts Ray off and sees Ray focus in back on the road. They swerve between traffic. The roads are starting to empty out - people hearing about what’s going on, most likely, and wanting to get out of the way. “Grab me the case in the back. With Ray’s rifle.”

“That’s stupid as shit,” Michael says, and Ryan’s about to snap a retort for _ruining the fucking moment_ , Ryan can’t stand that shit, really, _everything_ is about the moment, but then something knocks up hard against his left shoulder. Ryan reaches back and yanks the familiar case forward to rest on his lap.

“No,” Michael continues, “sorry, Gavin, I mean _you’re_ stupid as shit.”

Ah. Gavin must be physically okay, then, because Michael would be saying a lot of other things if Gavin wasn’t.

Ryan turns the dials on the case. _Three-six-four_. He doesn’t ask why those numbers, or what they mean. He busies himself with flipping the case open and beginning to take out the pieces of the rifle. It’s going to be a pain in the ass to build the thing in a car, but it’s not like he hasn’t done worse before. If he can fire a fucking RPG out of a car and hit a helicopter, he can fire Ray’s obnoxiously pink rifle out of that same window and make the Los Santos Police Department pay.

He secures the barrel and shoves half of the damn thing out the window. Ryan’s whole body twists in the seat before he scrabbles at the seatbelt. The strap clicks and he yanks his arm out of the way. He has to yank the mask up and off his face in order to press his eye to the scope, but that’s okay, because anyone who saw him is going to be dead in around fifteen seconds anyway.

Ray’s laugh is an ugly and brutal thing. “Look who’s not wearing their seatbelt now, fucker,” he proclaims, as if they aren’t being chased by three - no, four police cars now and one persistent helicopter.

God, Ryan hopes the press are on this one. Him leaning out of the window with Ray’s bright pink rifle ( _Ray’s_ rifle, who ever thought they’d be here) about to blow a police helicopter right out of the sky.

Pure fucking poetry.

“Hey, asshole,” Ray says, “don’t miss.” And he swerves hard to the right, probably to avoid traffic but also to grab Ryan by the balls, and Ryan lets out a short bark of laughter right as he pulls the trigger.

The shot is actually perfect. Picturesque. Through the scope Ryan gets a too-close look at the glass cracking and the driver being thrown back with the force of the bullet. A high caliber bullet’ll do that to you. Ryan grins hard enough that his face starts to hurt even as he drags the rifle back into the car, yanking the mask back down as he goes.

Ryan’s gaze moves to the side mirror. If he tilts his head just enough - there it is. The helicopter spins out to the right, grinds up against a fucking skyscraper, and starts a frantic descent towards the street. The four police cars maybe two hundred feet behind them are either slowing down or speeding up, depending on how good they feel their chances are.

Fuck what he said before. That’s poetry - their car speeding up as the helicopter crashes and goes up in flames behind them. A police car swerves right into a storefront. Glass shatters. People scream. Their car eases down Milton Road, limping but moving. And there’s no one else he’d rather be in the whole fucking world. Everything else can go to hell. This is another one of those pure, perfect moments - moments that Ray has been featuring in more and more frequently.

Michael’s voice is hoarse, probably from yelling at Gavin. “Holy fucking shit.”

“R&R Connection, you son of a bitch,” Ray practically shouts, slamming his fist hard on the top of the steering wheel.

Ryan laughs again, a lighter sound, and leans the rifle up against his shoulder. The end of the barrel just brushes up against the car’s roof. “R&R Connection,” he repeats. He tries to keep something abnormally fond out of his tone, but he’s not sure it worked.

Michael leans forward. “That’s the gayest shit in the world.”

“Fuck you.” Ray’s giddy with the adrenaline. They all are. “After that kind of shit, if I want to make out with Ryan and he lets me, I totally will. That was hot.”

“Aw, Ray.” Ryan’s mouth twists into a wider smile than he ever thought possible behind the mask. “Aren’t you sweet?”

“Hell yeah, I am, dude.” Ray’s eyes narrow a little - concentrating and remembering. “What happened with Gavin?”

There’s something special about how audible Michael’s annoyance is. It’s that tone that is reserved for Gavin and Gavin alone, because that’s just how unique the little fuck is. “Gavin fucking Free wants to meet us at Cox and Milton for a ride.”

“Doesn’t he have his own car?”

“Not any more. Stupid bastard used it to fuck up a few cops and threw himself out after locking the accelerator down.”

Ryan frowns and adjusts his grip on the sniper rifle. “Jesus. He made it out to Vinewood Hills somehow anyway.”

“Yeah. He’s on a bike.”

Ray perks up a little at hat. “What kind? Ruffian? Lectro?”

Now the smile is audible in Michael’s voice instead. “Fuck no. He’s on a bike. I mean a fucking two-wheeled, no engine involved bicycle. I wasn’t supposed to tell you that, but whatever. Shit’s great.”

“Wow.” Ray’s giving the windshield that tiny smile again. “Hopefully we can grab a picture. Geoff’ll lose his fucking mind.”

When they finally make it to Cox and Milton with only a cop or two on their tail - easily deterred with Ryan just hauling the sniper rifle out to aim at them - it’s easy to see Gavin. Vinewood’s residential in the first place, so there’s just about them and five suburban families on the road at this time of the day. Gavin’s standing on the corner, squinting down at his phone. There’s a duffel bag thrown over his shoulder that looks like it’s been through some shit today. There is also no bicycle in sight, which is a national tragedy in and of itself.

They pull up. The entire car groans. Michael throws the door open anyway.

“Get in, loser,” Ray says, more to himself than anyone else. It still makes Ryan chuckle a little.

Gavin, however, is staring right at Ryan through the window. “Is that Ray’s?” he says.

“Nope.” Ryan keeps his tone as neutral as possible. “This is my rifle. I just repainted it.”

“Because he loves me that much,” Ray adds, “that he’s starting to steal my signature style. That he will have to pay royalties for or whatever that's called.” Michael reaches out and pretty much bodily yanks Gavin and the duffel bag into the backseat with him. The door slams shut and Ray immediately presses down on the accelerator.

“You’re joking, right?” Gavin’s bewildered tone makes Ryan have to bite back a particularly mean-spirited laugh. “Michael, are they joking?”

“Who the fuck knows,” Michael says wearily.

By the time they reach the rendezvous point, it’s a good forty-five minutes later.

Ryan disassembles the rifle in the car on the way there. He takes his time. Ray once described his dedication to maintaining weapons as religious. _Ryan would fucking baptize each bullet individually if he could, I swear to God, you guys_. Ray’s rifle is up there, though, as an icon - just as important. So he unscrews the barrel and slips it carefully back into the case, cleaning what he can with the cloth that every gun case comes standard with, even if he’s never seen Ray use that cloth once in his whole life.

The wind rushes through the car. Michael and Gavin have the duffel bag propped between them on the backseat. Ray turns the radio over to a pop station again. He’s trusting Ryan with this much. They might talk about it later. Or they might not. Ryan sets each piece back into the case precisely, checking his work over before clicking the case shut. He spins the dials just to keep Gavin from messing with them and accidentally opening it.

After a moment’s consideration, he keeps the case on the floor near his own shoes. It’s not that he doesn’t trust the rest of the crew as a general rule. But he doesn’t trust them with this one thing.

Geoff and Jack are already waiting on the side of Mount Chiliad closer to the sea. They wave at the car and Ray waves back. The cargobob is somewhere else, but their bag of cash is clearly visible laying at the two men’s feet.

“You guys go ahead,” Ryan says evenly. “Ray and I’ll be out in a second.”

“Ah,” Michael nods, “Making good on that whole kissing thing, I see.”

“Get the fuck out of my car,” Ray offers, “that is totally stolen and not my car at all.” Michael laughs and pops open the door with the closest he ever gets to graciousness. He then drags a fucking bug-eyed Gavin out of the car by the collar, which is also incredibly gracious of him. Gavin lets out a surprised squawk and nearly falls over on his ass on the way out. Michael just keeps on dragging him anyway.

There’s a moment of silence as the door closes. Now there’s no engine noise to eat up the silence on its own.

“Sorry about that,” Ryan offers. “I know how you feel about the shit that’s yours. I mean - _really_ yours.”

“Nah.” Ray waves it off. “Not a big deal.”

“I’m guessing it would’ve been a big deal if it was, oh, I don’t know, Michael or Gavin up here with your gun instead.”

“Gavin wouldn’t be able to use my baby. He’d shoot his own fucking foot off in the middle of the heist. Which would be hilarious.”

“Ray.” Ryan puts a little more meaning into his tone. “You know what I mean.”

Ray’s still looking at the windshield space right in front of him. “Ha,” he says, which should be a laugh but comes out as a single syllable. He tugs off his glasses and uses the hem of his t-shirt to clean some nonexistent spot off of them. It is the most transparent stalling tactic Ryan’s ever seen, but he lets it happen. “Look. I said what I meant. And I’m cool with it, okay? Don’t get all weird and turn into that theater type that broods all the time. It’s fine.”

“I’m glad. I just - wanted to make sure.”

“Also, you should totally paint all of your shit pink. We can fucking match.”

“I’ll think about it,” Ryan says, laughter threaded through his tone. His shoulders are shaking a little with the effort of keeping back an actual laugh. “Just for you, Ray.”

It’s easy enough to split the money six ways after everyone rags on Ryan and Ray for their little private talk in the car. Geoff has everyone else pile into the only other car up here, because Ray pretty much demands that he get to keep his own shitty car because he lives the furthest from Mount Chiliad. Which is fair.

Ryan pauses in between the two cars.

Ray looks at him over the bundle of cash he legitimately shoved into two plastic grocery bags inside of each other. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he demands. “Just get in my car already instead of lurking around here all awkward and shit.

Ryan tugs off the mask. The face paint is an absolute mess by now, he’s sure, but it’s worth it just for the ability to breathe a little easier. “Why should I?”

“Shit I own,” Ray says, “includes: an Xbox, and a copy of Halo, and a fuckton of snacks that I totally bought for myself but would not mind sharing with exactly one other person. And, if you prove yourself or whatever, maybe I’ll make good on that kissing thing I mentioned earlier.”

“Keys to the kingdom, huh?”

“Yeah.” Ray spreads his arms apart as if trying to hold an imaginary amount of something. Whatever it is, there’s a lot of it. The plastic bags swing dangerously with the force of the motion. “A kingdom that is bountiful all to shit.”

Ryan laughs again. “Fine,” he agrees, sliding his hands into his pockets. “You better play one handed.”

“Sure.” Ray heads towards the car, Ryan a few steps behind him. “All because you can’t keep up, you ancient fuck."

Ryan flips him off as they climb into the car again. Yeah. This is one of the few good things he has. Maybe they’ll commit some more felonies tonight. Maybe not. Maybe they’ll just sit on the couch and wait for the nightly news to show footage of their heist, or maybe they’ll just check the paper tomorrow morning.

Endless possibilities, after all, are what they’ve bought in Los Santos.  


**Author's Note:**

> Title from International Small Arms Traffic Blues by (who could've guessed it) the Mountain Goats. Also, gun cases probably do not have locks like that, but I figured Ray and Ryan, out of the entire crew, would be the two guys most likely to find that kind of thing, especially with Gavin existing nearby.
> 
> Might be briefly popping out of true Fake AH Crew shit and writing some Dishonored AU stuff because that's what I've been playing lately, but maybe not - things are in progress.


End file.
